


So Much it Burns

by Zomb13Cat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Barebacking, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 08:17:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zomb13Cat/pseuds/Zomb13Cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was at this moment that Sam decreed, with unfaltering determination, that if Dean yearned for him even half as much as he did for Dean, Sam would make sure to give and take everything they both needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well this turned out a little differently than what I first intended. It started out as just an excuse to write a series of escalating porny interactions between the boys and then this (sort of) plot snuck in out of nowhere. It’s actually one of the longest things involving Sam and Dean I’ve written thus far (I actually already even have a small timestamp in mind) so I really hope you all like it. The first two sections might start a little slow (they’re short tho) but it does get dirtier better I promise

  1. Shock



It’s funny how things tend to sneak up on you when you least expect them.  One moment you’re in the middle of summer break, baking in the sweltering august heat in a Texan motel room with a busted ceiling fan and a drippy faucet _and the next_ you’re in Maine surrounded by cheery carved pumpkins and cotton cobwebs because it’s suddenly October 31 st and Dean - a pair of candy corn tucked under his upper lip like faux-fangs -- keeps pelting you with pieces of black licorice, and you can’t help but wonder where the time went.  But then there are those times when things don’t so much sneak up, but _bash_ into you like a Mack-truck with a faulty break system.  Like the time Sam realized that he had feelings for Dean.  _Feelings_ that weren’t that all together _brotherly_ and people _wouldn’t_ approve of – unless they were Anne Rice or V.C. Andrews - and would probably get him sent to a therapist and possibly Social Services. 

They were staying in a cottage; that had a faulty water heater but was big enough that Dean and he didn’t have to share a room, so that counted as a win in Sam’s book; near the outskirts of town.  The day had started out well enough –good even- it was a Saturday and Dad was away dealing with a haunting and wouldn’t be back until late afternoon Sunday; the temperamental water heater had decided to cooperate this morning, and when they went out for breakfast the local diner was having a two-for-one deal on ghost shaped pancakes.  Dean had been acting really nice lately -almost confusingly so- even offering to take Sam Trick-or-Treating later -which if Sam hadn’t been 15 and _a boy_ he might have totally agreed to.  They had even gone to a little second-hand store in search of a cheap, last-minute Halloween costume -not that Sam was actually considering it.  The store had been picked clean, but Sam did manage to find a cool, vintage Batman T-shirt which Dean, being the jerk he is, had swiped for himself, worn out of the store despite it being a tad too small for him.  Afterwards, Dean had treated him to a B-Horror double feature at the local theater.  That’s where the day had started to skew. 

The aisles were all but deserted, only a handful of people -mostly couples- had managed to turn up for the gem of classic cinema that involved something about possessed-zombie sheep on a murderous rampage.  Sam sat clutching a large tub of popcorn and a jumbo soda, eagerly awaiting Dean’s own personal version of Mystery Science Theater 3000 when _they_ arrived.   Two co-eds, dressed as a fairy and a pink flamingo respectively, decided to sit right in front of them despite having the option to sit almost _anywhere_ else.  One small hair-flip from the fairy and Dean was lost to him for the next three and a half hours.  Sam tried to focus his attention on the bad movie, ignore the _equally bad_ flirting going on around him but it was a monumentally difficult task when each exaggerated giggle and clichéd pickup line made him want to roll his eyeballs all the way to the back of his skull.  That coupled with a “Right Sammy?” every fifteen minutes had made it near impossible to follow the movie’s sure to be riveting plot.  It was right around the time one of the Demon Sheep was driving off a cliff -and what the _hell_ was up with this movie?- that Dean finally said “I’d love to go to your costume party” and Sam knew that he’d end up alone, watching local-access TV and binging on pixie-stix because there would be _no way_ Dean would let him tag along. 

It wasn’t until after the credits had rolled and the lights in the theater had been turned back on that Sam finally got a good look at the two girls.  They were wearing fishnets, and costumes so short and low cut that Sam wondered how they weren’t freezing on such a cold October day, along with enough body glitter to make a disco ball jealous.  They were also both really pretty, so it was really no wonder why Dean was interested.  The flamingo scrawled detailed directions to the party on the back of an old receipt in a neat, loopy script before they left with pleasant goodbyes and silver bell giggles.  And Sam couldn’t help but abhor them despite –or perhaps because of- all their niceties. 

They left the theater, a little extra pep in Dean’s step –and Sam was beginning to hate him just a little bit as well- and picked up a cheap five dollar pizza for dinner.  Dean scarfed down three slices and a glass of apple juice before he went to his room to change.  It was around 9pm by the time Dean finally came out.  Sam was busy sitting on the lumpy couch reading an old copy of _Pulp_ he had swiped from Dean’s bag.  He spared a quick glance toward his brother, Dean’s hair was gelled back and he had swapped the Batman T-shirt for a plain white one.

“You know it’s a costume party right?” Sam asked.

“I _am_ in costume.” Sam cocked an eyebrow to the reply. “I’m a greaser.” Dean said, putting on a pair of sunglasses.

“You’re a douchebag.” Sam rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the worn paperback.

“Don’t wait up.” Dean ruffled his hair as he walked past him.  The door slammed shut and moments later the familiar roar and purr of the Impala’s engine started and gradually faded away, leaving the cottage eerily silent. 

Sam didn’t wait up.  He went to bed at around 11:30pm after having re-read the same paragraph for the fourth time.  He stripped down to his boxer shorts and pulled on the discarded Batman T-shirt, because after all it should have been his, sunk into the too firm mattress and wrapped the scratchy army surplus covers around himself before drifting off to a dead sleep.  Some undetermined amount of time later he was woken up by a heavy thud.  Sam let his eyes droop, thinking for a moment it had only been a dream.  That was until a throaty, unmistakably female, laugh filtered through his sleep muddled mind, followed by a low rumble that was unquestionably Dean. 

For a moment, Sam couldn’t make heads or tails of the situation.  Dean couldn’t have brought a girl home with him could he?  _But he did_.  And Sam couldn’t be hearing what he thought he was hearing, could he?  _But he was_.  That’s when Sam realized just how paper thin the walls of the cottage actually were. Every sound behind the closed door audible almost magnified.  The heavy clomp of boots intermingled with the dainty clink of heels as they stumbled backwards towards their destination.  The jarring thud of a body having impacted against the wall.  Those moist and dirty slurps and high pitched whines and eager groans.  Sam should have covered his ears.  Should have muffled the sounds with his pillow.  But he didn’t -couldn’t really.  He was frozen in place, eyes wide and heart caught in his throat. 

There was the clear-cut open and shut of the door to the next room.  Followed by a giggle and the sharp screech of old mattress springs.  Then the sound of zippers being pulled down and cloth hitting the floor.  The thump of Dean’s boots, the clink of his belt, Sam’s helpful mind supplied.  His imagination working overtime to paint detailed pictures that went along with the sounds.  And then it started; mostly the girl; high, breathless whimpers and frantic little wails; A torrent of “God” “Fuck” “Yes” punctuated by the whine of the mattress springs; And that _obscene_ slap of skin on skin.  Things slowed down to a steady, relentless pace.  Quiet.  Quiet enough that he could hear them both, that he could hear _Dean_.  Dean’s heavy breath and guttural groans.  That frantic Unf, Unf, Unf, that made something twist in the pit of Sam’s stomach.  The fragile moment passed too quickly, the creak of the mattress speeding up along with the girl’s wails that upsurged before breaking off followed moments later by Dean’s harsh agonized gasp. 

Sam squeezed his eyes shut.  Tried to steady his heavy breath and pounding heart.  And then it hit him, that painful _, throbbing_ ache between his legs.  It was almost like an all-consuming burn, from the pit of his stomach to the tip of his cock.  Too painful to even move, to breathe, to think.  _Just do it._ He thought to himself. _Take care of the problem and go to sleep._ Carefully, as quiet as possible, he pulled his shorts down, the soaked fabric clinging at the head of his dick.  The cold air of the room stung at his sensitive skin.  Sam wrapped a hand around himself, the sensation too much, almost painful caused him to hiss through his teeth.  He bit on his lower lip, clamped his left hand over his mouth and began working himself with quick, urgent strokes, more concerned with finishing than acquiring any pleasure.  Sam tried to picture the flamingo’s pink fishnet clad legs, or the fairy’s glittered breasts, but his mind had other ideas.  It kept supplying him with images of a broad freckled back, lean muscled thighs, and strong arms that could hold him down and take what they wanted.  Suddenly, he was all too keenly aware of the strong spicy scent wafting from what he was wearing.  The scent of _Dean._ Enveloping him, _choking_ him.  He dragged heavy breaths through his nose, felt the musky scent from the T-shirt --Dean’s T-shirt-- magnify to the point where he could almost taste it, so he bit down hard enough on his lip to taste the coppery tang of blood instead, and came violently with a muffled whimper, Dean’s pained gasp echoing in his head like a promise.  Sam closed his eyes, tried to steady his painfully hitching breath, and began to drift off with the sudden horrified realization that he had feelings for Dean.  He’d pictured Dean. He _Wanted_ Dean.


	2. Awe

 

The next morning Sam awoke with a messed up head; a swollen, bloody lip; and a soiled, itchy belly and thighs.  He dashed to the bathroom and cleaned himself off.  Sam made his way to the small kitchenette as stealthily as possible in hopes of avoiding Dean and his guest, only to be greeted by a very sated looking Dean eating cold pizza right out of the box. 

“Morning-“ Dean sing-songed but his face fell stony as he turned to look at Sam. “What happened to you? You look horrible.”  Sam flinched when Dean reached out to touch him.

 

“I fell.”  Sam ducked out of Dean’s reach, the lie sounding less than convincing even to his own ears, and made his way to a half empty box of cereal. 

“O _kay_ , Weirdy McWeirdson.”  Dean, thankfully, dropped the subject and returned to his half-eaten, stale pizza flicking concerned gazes in Sam’s direction, trying to wheedle information out of him for the rest of the morning until John got home and set them to running laps. 

 

From there on out, Sam made it a point to avoid Dean like the plague.  Making sure they were never alone in the same room for very long; pretending he was so engrossed in whatever book, or paper, or cereal box he was reading that he didn’t notice there were other people around; even going so far as to ride with Dad on the longer stretches of road when they traveled, which was saying something because there was only so much of Dad Sam could take at any one time.   

“You know it’s perfectly normal, right?”  John started and Sam had to suppress his urge to snort.  _Nothing_ in their lives was _normal_.  “Getting tired of being the little brother.  Having Dean always take the lead.”  Sam kept quiet.  Better to have Dad think the cause of Sam’s erratic behavior plain ol’ teenage animosity than the deep-burning _want_ for his big brother it actually was.  “There’s this Salt and Burn down in Orlando.” John continued, not paying attention to anything other than the deserted road in front of them.  “Could be it’s time to go on your first Solo.”

 

The Salt and Burn had been easy.  Just a regular haunting that took less than a week to take care of, and that was only because the possessed item was an antique broche the in-keeper never took off.  Why anyone would make a broche out of human _hair_ was beyond Sam, but he wasn’t one to judge.  In the end Sam had snuck into the old woman’s room while she was taking a bath and pilfered the piece of haunted jewelry right from under her nose. 

 

When they finally met up with Dean that odd, fluttery feeling returned to Sam’s stomach and a deep, iron-clad press he hadn’t even realized was there released from his chest.  It turned out that the only thing worse than being around Dean all the time was _not_ being around Dean all the time.  That was when Sam decided that he could make it work.  If it meant not losing Dean, he could suppress all the feelings and the need.  He could pretend it was simple admiration and nothing more if it meant Dean would keep looking at him with a sense of pride and not one of disgust or disappointment. 

-W-

The time Sam realized his feelings might not be all that one-sided came out of left field.  It wasn’t the sudden, horrifying shock his own insight had been.  It was astonishing.  Like finding out you had won a raffle without realizing you had bought a ticket. 

It was Sam’s sixteenth birthday.  Dean woke him with a smack on the thigh and a “Happy sweet sixteen, Sammy!”  Before placing a shiny, pink, plastic tiara on his head –because he’s Dean and Dean does shit like that- and snapping a few Polaroids to immortalize the moment.  Sam blinked disoriented; the camera’s flash having thrown him for a loop.  “Get dressed.” Dean began as he shook the developing photo.  “Dad’s taking you to get your license.” 

 

The trip to the DMV was long and dull.  The lines too long and crowded and the test too simple and almost pointless as he’d known how to drive since he was nine.  When they walked out of the main building Dean was waiting outside, propped against the shiny black Impala, arms crossed and looking slightly smug.  Dad gave Sam one solid clap on the back before he clambered back into his truck and drove off without a word.  “You’re licensed.”  Dean spoke, more a statement than a question, but Sam pulled out the proof anyway.  “Good.” Dean tossed the keys at him and slipped into the passenger side.  He let Sam drive everywhere, anywhere he wanted, without snide comment or complaint.  They went to the museum, the arcade, a second hand book store, and a vintage record store.  They even went to the aquarium, because Sam was running out of ideas but Dean wasn’t complaining.  Once it was sufficiently late, they swung by a local Chinese restaurant and picked up a few to-go boxes of sweet and sour chicken,  chow-mein, and fried rice.  Dean and his fake ID managed to scrounge up a case of beer and a bottle of Jack.  When they got back to the motel, Dad and his truck were gone, probably out celebrating the fact it was a Monday.  They ate straight out of the boxes, perched on the hood of the Impala.  Split an egg roll and the bottle of whiskey and managed to almost completely finish off the beer. 

Sam laughed at Dean’s cheesy puns as he cleared away the debris, threw it out in the nearest trash can. 

“You comin’?” He called out as he swayed towards their room, stumbled slightly with the key despite having been the one to have had less to drink. 

“In’a minute.”  Dean said, cracking open another beer.  Once inside, Sam kicked off his shoes, but otherwise didn’t bother undressing.  The world was fuzzy at the edges and the bed was warm so he couldn’t be bothered by such trivial things as tucked in shirts or rumpled denim. Not even the stupid pink tiara balanced precariously over the head board was bothering him.  He closed his eyes, tried willing himself to sleep unsuccessfully.  There was too much stimulation in his mind.  A strange electric sensation prickling underneath his skin.

                It was around half an hour later that Dean finally came in from the cold.  Sam kept his eyes closed, struggled not to jolt upright when the sound of Dean’s footfalls grew louder and stopped right next to him.  It took all of Sam’s self-control not to squirm under Dean’s gaze.  He kept his eyes closed, breath shallow and even, and struggled not to shudder when he felt a quick, tentative brush of fingertips against his cheek, soft and barely perceptible before it was gone.  Then the bolder press of Dean’s palm cupping Sam’s face.  The heat of Dean’s skin made Sam’s whole body throb.  “Happy, Swee’ Six’een, Sammy.”  Dean slurred as he brushed the pad of his rough, calloused thumb against the curve of Sam’s bottom lip, the skin catching and dragging with the friction.  Sam let out a shuddered breath he couldn’t contain, cursed himself internally, but otherwise didn’t betray his current state.  But it was too late, Dean let go as if burned, made a sound that was more animal than human.  He quickly made his way into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.  Sam listened intently to the creak of pressure being applied to the wooden door and the faint reverberation of heavy breaths.  There was the blare of the shower running followed by a slight yelp and then the telltale echo of muffled grunts.  Sam’s eyes snapped open with the insight of what it all meant.  It hadn’t been a normal, brotherly touch.  It was the type of touch that came with something more, something akin to longing.  And that could only mean…  Dean felt something for _him_.  Dean _wanted_ him.  

It was at this moment that Sam decreed, with unfaltering determination, that if Dean yearned for _him_ even half as much as _he_ did for Dean, Sam would make sure to give and take _everything_ they both needed.  


	3. Tease

Sam’s plan –or rather lack thereof- on approaching Dean was to wing it.  He’d take any and all opportunities to test out his theory.  See if maybe Dean _did_ feel something other than just filial affection for him.  He was going to poke and prod at whatever was there until Dean finally conceded to what he’d never admit to wanting.  And if it did turn out that Dean wanted anything even remotely similar to what Sam wanted then he’d… Wing it some more?  Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the most thoroughly thought out plan ever, but this was all new territory for Sam.  And it wasn’t like he could go check out a _How-to-seduce-your-big-brother-in-ten-easy-steps-or-less-for-dummies_ book at the local library.  So his only real option now was to work on instinct and hope that Dean would take the bait. 

It was still relatively early when Sam walked, freshly showered, out of the bathroom and spotted Dean standing in the small pea green kitchen staring into his coffee mug like it held the answer to all the mysteries in the world.  Dad was passed out, dead to the world sleeping off a bender, on the rough, dusty couch all the way across the room and out of view.  Normally by this time every other morning Sam would be fully dressed and ready for school, but today he had other plans.  Sam walked past the breakfast island toweling his hair dry, wearing only an old, snug pair of jeans and the thinnest, softest undershirt he’d found at the bottom of his duffle. 

“Hey.” Dean startled at Sam’s greeting, almost spilling the entire contents of his coffee cup all over his shirt front.

“Oh hey.” He put the mug down on the peeling, speckled vinyl counter and rubbed at the back of his neck at a loss. “So um… Yesterday was fun.  Right?”     

“Yeah.” Sam replied tactfully, straining to not simper at Dean’s painfully obvious attempt at fishing.  “Last night especially.”  Dean’s face faltered at that as he leaned his weight against the counter worked out what to say next.  Sam smiled as he stepped forward reaching over and crowding in on Dean to pull a chipped, blue cereal bowl off of the shelf behind him.  Dean stopped breathing, still as a statue and muscles just as hard, each point of contact seeping out searing heat through the thin barrier of fabric.  Sam wished he could stay like this forever, a fixed point frozen in time.  But he couldn’t, so he pulled himself away, each movement agonizingly slow, their clothing bunching and riding up.  And then he felt it; almost nothing, a split second at the most, and he would have totally missed it if he hadn’t actively been looking for it;  the feel of Dean pushing up against him, pressing forward in effort to prolong the contact between them.  And that’s all Sam needed, all he would ever need.                   

“Dean” He breathed over his brother’s ear, saw the hair on his neck stand on end, and inched his body forward.  Dean smelled like sleep and coffee, and a faintest trace of alcohol, and Sam wondered if that was the reason for why he suddenly felt half-drunk.                             

A sudden, deafening _bump_ and _thud_ broke the spell as they both turned towards Dad’s direction, panic rising in Sam’s throat.  Dean slipped out from under him, and made his way to John’s sleeping form.  A mostly empty bottle of bourbon lay on its side, spilling its contents with a _glug glug glug_ onto the sparse cola colored carpet.    

Dean huffed out as he righted the bottle, half exasperation half relief.  He pulled Dad’s dry mud crusted boots off and draped the worn brown, leather jacket over him before turning back to Sam with an unreadable expression.  “Come on, let’s get you to school.”        

-W-

It was almost impossible to pay attention at school the rest of the day, his mind filled with confusion and doubts.  He kept running the scenario in his mind over and over wondering what would’ve happened if John hadn’t accidently kicked the bottle off of the end table.  He could feel a slight prickle, reminiscent of a sunburn, where he and Dean had been pressed chest to chest.  He kept wondering if he was reading into it wrong.  What if it was just wishful thinking on his behalf?  What if Dean _didn’t_ want anything to do with him?  But, that couldn’t be.  Not with the way Dean’s breath had stopped and stuttered when Sam pressed into him.  Not with the way he had pressed back.     

“Please continue on page 153, Mr. Winchester.”  His flavor-of-the-month English teacher shook him out of his stupor, and Sam quickly turned to the book in front of him, began to read an excerpt from a collection of Child Ballads _The Bonny Hind_ and was staggered by the cosmic irony of it all.         

The final bell rang and Sam couldn’t get out of his seat fast enough.  He shoved his papers into the bottom of his book bag and practically jumped out the classroom.  The sun blinded him when he stepped out of the front door and for a moment he had a horrible sense of dread when he didn’t immediately spot the familiar black and chrome.  It soon faded, however, when he turned to see Dean parked illegally in one of the shaded faculty spots.          

“Hey” Dean said as he tossed his backpack into the back seat.  “How was your day?”  He seemed nervous.  The kind of nervous you get when you’re in front of someone you want to impress.        

“Same as always.”  Sam gave him a resigned smile “I’m learning about mitochondrial DNA in my bio class- for the fourth time.”    

Dean chuckled “well at least you got a head start.” As he pulled into a gas station to refuel.  He handed Sam a crisp hundred dollar bill only creased twice down the middle; probably hustled in some game of pool or poker; and motioned with an eye flick towards the convenience store.             

Sam loaded up the little blue basket with their usual arsenal of empty calories; several packs of Cheetos and Doritos,  Twinkies and Ding Dongs, several bottles of Soda Pop, Sunflower seeds and beef jerky –because if they were gonna binge Sam would at least make sure they got some type of protein- and a mountain of candy.  He idled at the frozen treat section, wondered if he should or if it was too much, but then again how many opportunities like this was he gonna get?  Well, knowing Dean probably _a lot._   But Sam was young and stupid so he decided to go for it anyway.        

Sam waited until Dean was back in the driver’s seat and they had pealed out back on to the road.  “Want something?”  He asked wading through the plastic bags on his lap.  Dean acquiesced, never being one to turn down food, and opted for a Twinkie.  He watched as Dean took the package in one hand, opened it with his teeth, and finished off the yellow sponge cake in two bites flat.  Nervously he fiddled with his own wrapper sneaking side-glances towards Dean whose attention was focused on the road ahead.  He’d bypassed his usual Choco taco and pulled out a Rocket Pop instead.  Sam swallowed anxiously and pressed the frosted red tip to his tongue.  He tasted nothing and felt the ice stick to his skin on the first few licks but that all changed as the frosty coating melted and he was hit by the syrupy sweetness of cherry flavoring.  Sam let out a satisfied groan as he sucked the frozen treat into his mouth.     

There was a gasp and a jerk and swerve of the car.  Sam smirked around the giant Popsicle – _oh yeah,_ this was gonna work out just _fine-_   pulled out the flavored ice with a slight slurp and licked his cold, numbed lips. “You okay?”     

“I’m F-fine” Dean’s voice broke.  Sam shrugged nonchalantly and returned to his Rocket Pop enthusiastically.  He sucked and laved at the sugary ice.  Lapped up the long, messy trails of melted sweetness with broad, flat stripes of his tongue.    Out of his peripheral vision he could see Dean intensely focused in front of him, back ramrod straight, hands a white knuckled grip on the steering wheel.  He let the sweet water collect in his mouth; swallowed with a thick, eager groan; the chill of it doing nothing to mitigate the fire in his belly.  Dean bristled, flicked the radio on to deafening, muffling every sound in and around them with _When the levee breaks_.   

They idled at a set of train tracks, the barrier coming down and warning lights flashing.  Sam feeling bold lowered the volume on the radio down to a staticky whisper.  He pulled the Popsicle out of his mouth excruciatingly slow, letting his frozen lips drag against the body.            

He lifted the Rocket Pop; red tip rounded, shiny and glisteningly wet, almost obscene; to a few inches away from his brother’s face, licked his lips and with all the innocence he could muster asked “Want some?”            

Dean stared at the treat running sticky trails of blue and red over Sam’s fingers and gulped.  Sam startled when Dean leaned down and took the whole thing in his mouth, twitched when he felt Dean’s blisteringly hot, velvety tongue drag over his finger tip.  Dean pulled off, leaving only a tri-stained Popsicle stick in Sam’s trembling hand, chewed and swallowed with a shiver.  Sam’s brain ceased to function as they stared into each other’s eyes, the air all around them felt molasses thick.                

The moment was broken when several cars behind them honked.  They turned to see the caution barrier up, the train apparently come and gone without them noticing.  Dean laughed mirthlessly and put the car into drive. 

-W-

Having all the confirmation he wanted or needed Sam decided to redouble his efforts.  He started lounging around to as close to naked as he possibly could and still be clothed, just a pair of running shorts, or an old pair of pajama pants, the fabric so clingy and almost translucent with wear that they left little to the imagination.  During training he’d pull his shirt off after running laps, use it to sop away the trails of sweat that ran down his neck and matted his hair.  He’d let their touches linger a little longer than necessary during sparing, and he’d made sure to stretch thoroughly before and after each session, letting out little moans and groans whenever John was out of earshot.  Dean in turn would only squirm on the edge of his seat.  He would stumble on over his own feet and shuffle awkwardly from one place to the next.  It got to the point where Dad started to notice, ragged on Dean over his slowed reaction times or lack of focus.  Because of that, and frankly because the constant flirting and teasing was beginning to turn exhausting, Sam chose to take some pity on his older brother and decided take it down a notch.

 

They were sitting quietly at some random little greasy spoon out in the middle of Kentucky, Dean eerily quiet; John sitting next to him with a myriad of manila folders and newspaper clippings that swallowed half of the garish beige and teal booth; and Sam inattentively playing with the remnants of his cherry pie a la mode, mixing the white of the melted ice cream and the lumpy blood-red filling into something into something morbidly reminiscent to fresh brain matter.  He scooped the last bite, let the too sweet sugary substance melt on his taste buds, kept the fork in his mouth, absentmindedly running his tongue between each metal tine.  John stood up and made some remark about “hitting the head” their usual warning to either finish up or be prepared to leave unsatisfied. 

“Stop it!” Dean leaned in across the table and let out in a low breathy huff.  Sam blinked, once, twice; pulled the fork out of his mouth, the warm metal scratching at his tongue; and cocked an eyebrow.

“What?”

“You _know_ what.”  And no, Sam really didn’t.  “This-this whole… _thing._ ”  Dean let out exasperated and motioned at Sam with his hands.  “The constant licking and biting at your lips.  And the running your hand up and down your thigh all sultry.”  _Sultry?_  “And _that,_ that look of innocence and confusion, like you have no idea what you’re doing.”  But, Sam _hadn’t_ been doing any of that- at least not actively.  “And in front of _Dad._   You’re driving me out of my friggen’ _mind,_ here.”  John came back before Sam had had any opportunity to even begin to respond, tossed a few bills on the table and ordered them to haul ass.  The ride back to the room was unbearably long, John’s assurance that he’d be back in a in a day or two and monotonous tone of NPR flickering in and out of the speakers the only things piercing the heavy silence.

-W-

“Yes Sir.” Dean’s voice filtered from outside the room along with the roar of John’s truck pulling out.  Sam closed the door as Dean made his way, unsure, into the room. 

“Dean” His brother jerked around at the sound. 

“Sam.”

“Are we gonna talk about it?”  He took a step forward.  Dean took two back.

“Nothin’ t’talk about.”  And wasn’t that just _so damn_ like Dean?  To hide from or ignore the elephant in the room. 

“Bullshit.” Sam surged forward in irritation as Dean, just as quickly, walked backwards until the back of his knees hit against the heavy wooden chair propped against the far wall.  He fell plopped down onto the too firm leather cushion with a startled _oomph._   “Stop acting like I’m crazy, Dean”  And before Sam completely realized how it happed, he was straddling his brother’s lap, thighs spread wide and trapped between the chair and Dean’s hips.  “You can’t tell me you don’t feel this.” And Sam was definitely beginning to feel _something._   The hard leather upholstery creaked underneath Dean’s firm grip.  “I know what I feel.”  He pressed in closer, ran his hands over Dean’s chest. 

“Sammy, _don’t”_ Dean’s voice sounded wrecked.  His hands shot out and gripped Sam’s wrists and held him away. 

“I want this Dean.” Sam twisted his hands in Dean’s bruising grip enough to take a hold of his forearms.  “And I know you want this too.”  He emphasized each word with a quick, dirty roll of his hips.  And if Sam was rock hard, Dean was diamond.  “And”  Dean’s body was strung so tense it was practically vibrating.  A guitar string two strums away from breaking. “what I’m saying is”  He pulled Dean’s arms behind him, ironclad grip slipping and fingers landing splayed on Sam’s lower back; and leaned to whisper hot and wet against Dean’s ear “You can _have it_.”  _Snap._

Dean made a noise that could hardly be described as human as he pulled Sam in tight with one hand, the fingers of the other one slipping underneath Sam’s waistband to ghost over his ass and in between his cheeks.  Sam closed his eyes as Dean nuzzled into his neck over the thin skin behind his ear, mouthed hot, wet lines over his jaw and down his collar bone.  Sam’s cock throbbed with each roll and press of denim on denim.  “Fuck” Sam gasped and keened as Dean’s hips bucked and his hand slid further down, rough fingertips catching and dragging against his hole, each nerve ending in Sam’s body going off at once.  Sam came without warning, light fracturing into a million pieces behind his eyelids.  “Fuck” he bit down on Dean’s shoulder listened to the way his brother moaned at the sharp pain. 

Sam opened his eyes expecting to see his brother in a similar state to his own but what he found was a cornucopia of conflicting emotions.  Dean’s breaths were heavy, eyes dark with lust, his face fluctuating between fear, fondness, and regret.  Dean stood up slowly and slid Sam’s orgasm dazed frame off him and placed him gently –always the caretaker- on the chair.  Dean was still hard, dick straining what looked to be painfully against his zipper, tenting out the front of his Jeans.  He spun on his heel and flew out the door like he’d seen the devil, leaving Sam abandoned in a state of physical satisfaction but emotional disorientation.


	4. Play

When Dean finally came back the next day, it was past four in the afternoon, his clothes were a rumpled mess, and he smelled of stale liquor and cheap perfume.  He bypassed Sam and headed straight for the shower, came out fully dressed and left once more without a word, didn’t come back until around midday.  Sam tried to talk to him as soon as he stepped into the door but Dean cut him off with a “Dad just called, he’s 10 away and he sounds pissed.”  Sam sighed as he and Dean set to picking up the trash strewn around the room. 

John came home cradling a bad shoulder, mumbling and cursing “Motherfucker got the drop on me.” And “bad shot” and the occasional “fucking Caleb”.  Sam decided not to press when John cringed and downed a handful of Oxy with half a bottle of Gin.  His only reward for his self-control, however, was Dad driving them out to some local field for shooting practice. 

John set up a neat row of empty bottles and cans on a fence post a good 30 yards away, against the sun. 

“Start here and work your way out”  Dad called out, voice carried out by the wind as Sam stared down the black barrel of the shot gun.  He took one shot, _bang,_ and barely grazed the top of one of the rusted cans, knocked it down with a muffled _clank_.  The second shot missed completely.  “ _The hell was that?”_   Dad yelled out, words slurring a bit together.  “You two even been practicing?”  He started off on one of his usual rants “what we do is important.  We save lives”  and how not training “is what get people killed”. 

“He’ll get the next one, Sir.”  Dean’s voice cut through.  “Sam can do it.”  Sam’s body tensed at the tone of Dean’s voice.  At the implication of a trust and belief in Sam so great that he’d actually stand up against their father even marginally.  He set the sight back on the target.  His hands trembled and he squinted, the too bright sun making his eyes ache and water, and beads of sweat break out across his temples.  He was going to fail; everyone knew it, everyone except Dean apparently.  Dean who was looking at him with a face so sure it made Sam’s lungs stutter.  He gulped and focused on the glass bottles glinting like jewels in the setting sun.  The blue grass shivered and rippled lazily like waves on a lake, fluctuating between minty green, white and almost turquoise.  Sam adjusted for the wind resistance.  The first shot echoed in Sam’s ears, drowning out the crack of the glass, but the small curve to the corner of Dean’s lips was all the confirmation he needed.  He set his sight to a rusty beer can next and squeezed slightly on the trigger, almost jerked when he felt Dean kick his feet apart, and the press of Dean’s palm against his lower back to straighten his stance.  Sam took two consecutive shots, which hit right in the center of the targets, sent the aluminum cans flying.  “My turn” Dean’s voice was smug. 

“You need to practice more.”  Dad began.  “Your brother’s not always gonna be there to-“  John’s voice was cut off by the sound of Dean picking off the rest of the targets, pop pop pop pop, metal and shattered glass raining down like diamonds.  Dean winced as he lowered the shotgun, rolled and rubbed at his shoulder which struck Sam as odd since the kickback of the shot gun hadn’t been _that_ bad. 

“Out’a targets, Sir.”  He spared a quick wink at Sam, and for a moment Sam felt his stomach bubble over. 

“Yeah, let’s get heading back.”  John groused, spun on his heal and started to walk away. 

From then on out everything seem to be back to normal, their own particular brand of normal, which was hardly normal at all.  Dean still teased Sam incessantly, refused to take a side whenever Sam and Dad would argue, pissed them off more with his failed attempts to mollify them both, and constantly made bad jokes and puns.  Still, everything felt slightly off for some reason, barely perceptible, like someone had picked up the world and moved it two inches to the left.

 Dean had been flirting _extra_ hard with the 7-11 clerk, Angela her nametag said, and was cajoling into meeting up after her shift was over.  Normally that wouldn’t really strike Sam as odd, Dean had always been a bit of a philanderer, but the way his voice wavered was.  He sounded anxious, like he was dreading her saying no.  She acceded of course.  He was _Dean_ , they never said no.  When they got back to the room Dad left “for a few hours” and Dean slipped out like a ghost not fifteen minutes later.  And Sam had been so sure that they were past the avoidance.

It was a little bit before 5am when Dean finally walked through the door.  There was lipstick on his collar and he looked debauched.  School started at eight and for a while Sam thought he’d end up missing Dean completely.  Dean quirked an eyebrow in Sam’s direction, he tossed his keys and a bag of donuts on the scarred wooden table and wordlessly made his way to the bathroom, pointedly not looking in Sam’s direction.  Sam stared at the plywood door for an hour, soundlessly tearing apart a bear claw –Dean’s favorite- into a million little pieces. 

                The door finally clicked open and Dean stepped out, face faltering for a moment before pulling up a mask of casualness. 

                “Dude, not the Bear Claw.”  He walked up to Sam voice full of mock indignation as he tried to pry the still half complete pastry out of his hands.  Sam looked up at Dean’s face; paled from the lack of sleep, dark smudges underneath his eyes, a light ghosting of stubble; acting as if everything was okay.   Dean was ignoring it, pretending as if _that_ night hadn’t happened, and today was just another normal day, and that made Sam angry.  Angrier than Dean running away _that_ night leaving Sam with a fuzzy head and Jizz soaked pants.  Angrier than those red and purpling marks peaking from underneath his T-Shirt collar, made him feel.  Sam clamped a hand onto Dean’s wrist, before he could pull away.  They both stared at each other intently, Sam challengingly, Dean’s façade faltering slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing marginally with a dry swallow.

                “I’m not giving up, Dean.”  He tightened his grip, wanting to leave his own marks on Dean.  Wishing he could erase the one’s that he had nothing to do with. 

                “Let go a’me.”  Dean’s voice vibrated over Sam, a warning and a promise all in one. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

                “No matter what you do –who- I’m not going to stop feeling this way.”  Sam struggled to keep his voice calm.  “I’m not gonna stop wanting this.”

                “You’re _Sixteen_ , Sammy. You don’t know what you _want_.”  Dean’s agitated words only inflamed the rage building in Sam’s belly as he pulled out of Sam’s grip.  

                “It’s _Sam_ , God damn it.”  His voice rose and octave. “ m’not a kid!- And _what?_ _Just ‘cause I’m sixteen_ I’m not supposed t’know what –who- I want?  Just _cause I’m Sixteen_ I’m not supposed to _want sex?_ ”

                “You’re not supposed to want it with _me.”_ Dean shouted exasperated.

                “Well too bad, Dean.”  Sam steeled his voice.  “Because I do.  More’n anything.”  He stood up and breached the space between them, cautiously pressed his fingertips to Dean’s jawline, above a recent bruise.  Dean stilled, screwed his eyes shut and shuttered.

                “How’d I screw you up so bad?”  And wasn’t that _just like_ Dean?  To blame and beat himself up when it was Sam doing everything himself.  “You’re supposed to be different, Sammy.”  Dean’s face pressed into Sam’s palm out of its own volition and Sam could feel the flutter of razor-tipped butterflies slicing up his insides.  “I don’t wanna ruin you.”

                “You won’t.”  The words scrapped at Sam’s throat like broken glass. 

                “Yeah.”  Dean huffed out and Sam wasn’t sure if was admission or reassurance.  It didn’t really matter though.  Because that’s the moment John’s truck decided to pull into the drive, all loud Diesel engine and squeaky breaks.  They separated quickly, Dean shoving a pastry in his mouth as their Dad walked in.  Sam handed a donut to John who stared at them with thinly veiled suspicion. _You have no idea, Dad._ He licked the melted sugar off of his fingertips and only tasted the salt of Dean’s skin.

-W-

                Dean cut down on his overactive flirting and avoidance of Sam.  He didn’t, however, stop pushing Sam’s advances away.  Whenever Sam would get too close Dean would push him away, hold him still at arm’s length; not wanting to let go, but too afraid to let it progress beyond  a few longing looks and chaste, stolen touches.  It was, quite frankly, beginning to get on Sam’s last nerve. 

                School had just let out and pretty soon they’d pick up and leave to wander through every back road and backwater town in search of one hunt after the next.  Dean was out, having been guilted into “celebrating”, with a few guys from the local garage he’d been moonlighting at.  Sam sat quietly, on the bed closest to the door –Dean’s bed- waiting in the dark.  It was around 1am –Way before last call, Sam noted- when Sam heard the quieted click of the door opening and closing.  Sam flicked on the lamp sitting on the side table, casting the room in a warm, golden glow. 

                “Sammy?”  Dean spun to face him, startled, back plastered to the beige plywood door.  His eyes were glassy, and his face was ruddy –every freckle standing out- because of his inebriation.  “what’re you still doin’ up?”

                “Waiting for you.”

                “Wh-“  Dean cleared his throat. “What for?”  The husk in Dean’s voice sent chills up Sam’s spine.  Sam peeled off his T-shirt, his skin somehow feeling twice as hot without it on.  “Sam?” Dean croaked out.

                “I can’t stop thinking about you.”  Sam’s body slid down the bed in one fluid motion, head on the pillow, and rapidly swelling cock tenting the front of his thin cotton pajama pants.  “I can’t help it, Dean.  I just start thinking of you and my skin goes _all tight_.”  Sam craned his head back, ran his hands from his throat down his chest, thumbing at his nipples so that the little nub of flesh was hard and sensitive, and over his taut belly.  Dean’s breath hitched as he pressed himself harder into the door, hand holding on to the metal doorknob like a lifeline.  Sam hooked his thumbs underneath the elastic waistband of his pajama bottoms, at the wings of his hips, and arched his back.  He pulled them down slowly, over the swell of his ass, his straining dick, let the fabric scrape against his trembling thighs and over his knees, kicked them off when he could no longer reach. 

                Sam slid his hands over his thighs, dragged his blunt nails down the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, leaving faint red trails over the paled flesh.  He cupped at his tight, heavy balls with one hand while the other played at tracing lazy patterns over the hair at the base of his cock.  The air around them felt stuffy and thick to them both, judging by Dean’s heavy, unnaturally loud breaths.  Sam’s eyes fluttered closed as he wrapped his dry palm around his hot length, gave it a few leisurely tugs before running a thumb over the leaking head, smearing the precome down the overheated skin to make the movements smoother.  He let go of his balls, pressed firm, circular motions over his perineum, and felt his body jolt at the sensation.  “Sometimes I imagine touching you.”  He stole a peek at his brother through his lashes.  Dean’s chest was heaving, his eyes void dark, his hand white knuckled against the doorknob as if he would bolt any second now, and Sam wondered if the only reason he didn’t was the thick bulge of his cock straining down one of the legs of his jeans.  “Sometimes I imagine it’s you touching me.”  A deep raucous moan tore from Sam’s throat.  He lifted his hand to his mouth, sucked and laved at his fingers greedily, his other hand picking up the pace on his aching prick.  He let go of his fingers with a loud slurp and lowered them to in between his legs, ran a saliva soaked digit across the furled skin of his entrance.  “I wish it was _you_ touching me.”  Sam moaned.  “Your hands, your mouth.”  Sam’s pace quickened, hand pulling and tugging frantically at his swollen dick, wrist flicking with a twist at the drooling head.  “Your fingers” he tentatively pressed his finger past the quivering muscles of his clenching hole, let it stretch and drag against the skin before adding another, pushing and pulling until he hit that one spot that made colors explode behind his eyelids.  “Your –cock” the last word scraped out of his throat, pulling all the air from his lungs along with it as his fingers hit against his prostate _just right._   He felt his balls draw up and came in long, drawn out spasms, come landing in spurts over his convulsing belly.

                Dean’s fingers slipped off of the doorknob and for a moment Sam was sure he was going to turn tail and run.  So Sam was dumbfounded when instead of slipping out of the room Dean crossed the space separating them in three long strides.  He planted a knee between Sam’s bent legs and hesitantly placed a rough hand over Sam’s knee cap.  Dean pushed Sam’s legs apart enough so he could fit in between them and ran a large, calloused palm over the rapidly cooling come on Sam’s abdomen, spreading it and painting slick trails on previously dry skin.  Sam whimpered as Dean’s hand ran over his chest and scraped over the sensitive bud of his nipple.  Something in Dean broke.  He let out a noise analogous to a growl and gripped Sam’s thighs hard enough to bruise, pulled him over his lap, the rough denim of Dean’s jeans scraping almost painfully against the over sensitized flesh of Sam’s thighs and ass.

                Dean undid his belt, the metal buckle and leather slapping and stinging against Sam’s skin, undid his pants, and winced as he finally freed his huge, throbbing cock, the angry red, swollen head oozing wet.  Sam gulped, both in trepidation and excitement.  Dean’s piercing gaze caught him, swallowed him up until Sam forgot just how to breathe, but it didn’t really matter, not with the groan Dean let out.  Dean started to stroke himself with a frantic, punishing rhythm, chest heaving with huge, pained gasps.  Sam whimpered at the indescribable sounds emanating from his older brother.  “Dean” his voice hitched and Dean let out a deeply pained out moan, like a _death rattle_ and came brutally all over Sam, painting his stomach, chest and even face with thick gobs of searing heat. 

                Sam panted in stunned silence as Dean’s eyes snapped open.  He could feel a small amount of come clinging to the corner of his lower lip, and without thinking he stuck his tongue out and licked it clean.  It tasted salty and bitter, kind of gross to be honest, but also kind of wonderful because that was the _taste of Dean_. 

                Dean jerked up, eyes wide and face with a look full of guilt.  Sam really fucking hated that look. 

                “I’m sorry.”  He croaked, tucking himself back into his pants and running out the door like the house was on fire.  Leaving Sam a wrecked, filthy mess.

                Covered in come and ruined as prophesied.


	5. Surrender

To Sam’s astonishment –and probably a little of his own to be honest- Dean didn’t leave _completely_ that night.  He spent the whole night in the Impala, his forehead pressed against the steering wheel, listening to Guns and Roses on repeat.  Sam cleaned himself up and busied himself with packing both their duffels for the inevitable move.  He was busy putting away several knives and a well-used whetstone when he notice a curled, yellowed corner peeking out from in between Dean’s lock picking set.  Carefully, Sam unfolded the sturdy, black canvas case and pulled a photograph from inside it.  It was of Dean and him -they couldn’t’ve been more than 9 and 5 respectively- asleep at Pastor Jim’s, Dean had him tucked underneath his chin, his arms wrapped protectively around Sam, and his face looked weary and aged beyond its years.  Sam remembered that dad had been irrationally angry at Dean as he drove them from some seedy motel with a broken window to Pastor Jim’s, sending reproachful looks in in his direction every so often.  When they had been left alone, Dean pulled Sam in a crushing hug and kept sobbing in his hair.  “I’m sorry, Sammy.  I’m so sorry.  I’ll never let anything hurt you again.  I’ll never hurt you.”  Sam never knew what had brought that up.  All he knew is that he fell asleep wrapped in his brother’s arms and felt completely safe. 

                Sam sighed.  He opened the door and leaned against the doorway, crossed his arms to shield himself against the morning chill, and stared at the Impala.  Dean, looking completely drained, lifted his head as if sensing his presence.  They stared at each other through the windshield and Dean gave him a lost, watery smile that hit Sam like an elbow to the chest. 

 

                “I’ll back off.”  Sam spoke a little into their second, awkwardly silent, hour down a long stretch of highway.  Dean quirked an eyebrow at him and his mouth formed a small, dour smile as Sam turned up the volume on the stereo and stared out the window at the endless expanse of nothing. 

-W-

                There had always been a definite routine to their summers, always moving from one town to the next, never staying long enough to really get to know the locals or make any actual friends, two, three weeks tops.  They’d always just relied on each other for company, and Sam was a little worried that maybe he’d fucked it all up. 

                The muggy Louisiana heat clung to them like a wet blanket, covered their skin in clammy sweat and filled their lungs with soupy air.  Sam flopped down on the cool vinyl floor of the rental they were staying at and contemplated letting his body melt into a puddle of despondent teenager.

                “You look comfortable.”  Dean chuckled, stood over him and toed at his ribs.  Sam swatted at his foot like a ninety year old, lethargic cat.  “Get up, we’re going somewhere.”

                “Leave me alone, the floor and I are one.” 

                “No ya don’t.” Dean snorted as he reached down and pulled Sam up in one quick movement.

                “ _Dean_ ” Sam most definitely _did not_ whine like a child.  They walked a good twenty minutes through abandoned trails and marshy ground and thick vegetation the only answer Dean would give on to where they were going was _you’ll see._   “Dean, seriously, if this is about another ‘voodoo priestess’ I swear-“  Sam began exasperated. 

                “Quit yer Bitchin’.  We’re here.”  Dean grabbed Sam by the shoulders and turned him around.

                “Jerk-“  Sam fell silent at the sight of a pretty large pond, a good sixty feet in diameter, completely isolated, water glittering like a blanket of emeralds in the few beams of sunlight that filtered through the canopy of the trees that surrounded it.  “Are we on private property?”

                Dean shrugged. “Probably” 

                Sam huffed out a laugh, turned to his brother and said, “Race ya”  He bolted towards the small wooden peer, stripping off his T-shirt and  kicking off his shoes, letting the items land helter skelter down his path, and dove into the cool, crisp water.  “I win” He called out and did a few victory laps as Dean pulled off his boots and took off his jeans.  Sam let himself float on the tranquil surface of the water, closed his eyes and listened to the natural sounds around him.  Dean, clad in only a pair of white boxer shorts, explored their surroundings, gave a few experimental tugs to an old rope hanging from one of the trees surrounding the lip of the pond and –satisfied with his findings- pulled back at a run, swung himself with a wild _whoop._

                The rope held, it was the branch that didn’t.  It snapped with a loud _crunch_ , like breaking bones, and flung Dean way farther than he was intending to land.  He sank like a boulder; splashing water several feet into the air and causing Sam to sink and float like a buoy.  “ _Dean?”_   Sam called out in a panic when his brother didn’t immediately bob back to the surface.  The water had calmed a bit but there was no sign of him.  Suddenly, a heavy weight surrounded his middle and Sam was pulled down into the pale jade water with a loud gasp.  Sam jerked and kicked like a wounded animal, gasped and drew in large lungfuls of air when he finally reached the surface. 

                “Gotcha” Dean chuckled as he held on to Sam tight, keeping them both afloat.

                “That wasn’t funny.” Sam complained.

                “It was a little funny” Dean fixedly gazed into Sam’s eyes with that cock-sure grin on his face.  Sam realized how he was clinging to his brother; arms locked around his shoulders, Dean’s firm grip around his middle, the pressing clench of Sam’s thighs around Dean’s, skin on skin; and all of a sudden the water felt several degrees too warm.  A lit pot about to simmer.  Sam swallowed, lost himself in the green of his brother’s eyes, and despite of their surroundings nothing seemed more vibrant or full of life. 

                Dean let go with one hand, brought it up and smoothed the plastered curtain of hair away from Sam’s face and out of his eyes.  “Need a haircut” He grinned before lowering hand down and splashing water up at Sam’s face, bringing down the soaked locks all over again, let go and swam away.

                “ _Dean_ ” Sam grumbled and set to chasing his older brother around in search of payback.

                The heat had gone down significantly by the time they decided to get out of the water.  Dean lifted himself onto the peer first, the muscles in his arms and back flexing and straining, and shook himself off.  The white fabric of his boxers had turned translucent and lewdly clung around him.  Sam blushed and averted his eyes. 

                “Don’t tell me _you’re_ shy, Sammy.”  Dean chortled walking towards his pile of clothing. 

                “It’s Sam.”  He rolled his, avoiding denial or confirmation.  Dean smirked and raised a brow before pulling off his soaked underwear and stepping into his Jeans.  Sam’s eyes widened as he clambered, ungracefully onto the peer and scurried to put on his clothes like a frightened mouse. 

-W-

                “Two-for-one Tuesday at Green valley Cinema”  Dean declared, flipping through the pages of a local free circulation newspaper.  “you feel like catching a movie?”  Sam shrugged and nodded in agreement. 

                Dean casually slung an arm around Sam’s shoulder, elbow hooking around the back of his neck, setting their pace as they walked the fifteen minutes or so to downtown.  Their hips bumped awkwardly with each stride and Sam was all too acutely aware of the way Dean’s finger tips tapped softly against his breast bone with each step.  They chose a generic action flick, two parts machine guns, one part explosions, and an unsurprising lack of discernible plot points. 

                His brother ushered him down the cramped seating isles of the, mostly empty, movie theater.  His body occasionally bumping into Sam’s back, running shivers down his spine, as he struggled to balance the concession stand contents in his arms.  Fifteen minutes and two shootings into the movie, Dean leaned in close and whispered.  “How long do you think before they start going at it?”  He motioned to a couple in the front row, thrown in stark relief because of the screen, a giant undefinable mass gliding seamlessly like ectoplasm.  He pulled the coke Sam had been nursing on out of his hand, Ice clanking against the paper cup, clear plastic straw scraping over Sam’s upper lip, and sucked up three large mouthfuls. 

                “They’re not-“

                “Not _yet.”_ Dean confirmed, sticking the cold drink in Sam’s lap and leaning in once more.  “Workin’ their way up.”  Sam’s face and neck felt boiling hot despite air conditioned theater.  “you can’t just jump into things, Sammy.”  Sam’s eyes screwed shut as Dean’s lips grazed the shell of his ear, hot, moist breath eliciting full body shivers.  “Gotta dip your toes in and test the water.”  His brother pulled back and settled into his seat before shoveling a handful of popcorn into his mouth with a loud crunch. 

-W-

                It was a Thursday and Sam’s turn to get dinner ready, which meant off-brand macaroni and cheese, and some dried-out leftover meatloaf one of the neighbor ladies, that had a crush on John, had brought over last night.  He dumped the contents of the generic white box into a dinged up pot on the stove and stuck the aluminum wrapped meat into the gas-smelling oven to reheat it.  The loose floorboards at his back creaked with someone’s steps as he reached up to pull a set of plastic tumblers off of the cupboard above the sink, the hem of his T-shirt rising with the movement. 

                He stilled when he felt a warm, rough-skinned hand sliding over the strip of exposed skin, followed by the deep all-consuming heat of Dean’s body pressing against his back.  Dean’s other hand gripped tightly at Sam’s hip as Dean’s open mouth landed hot and sharp over his pulse point, dragged up behind his ear and down his neck, tongue laving at the skin.  Sam gasped, lowered his hands and gripped and the brushed metal of the sink.  They’d been playing at this game, stealing gradually escalating touches, over the past few weeks, but it’d never gotten to this point before.  Dean’s hand slid to the front of Sam's stomach, underneath his bellybutton, fingers rubbing at the downy trail of hair and dipping underneath the waistband of his jeans. 

                “ _Christ”_ Sam huffed out as Dean surged forward, hips grinding filthy-rough into Sam’s ass.  Instinctively Sam pushed back into the hard bulge in his brother’s jeans, feeling light headed because all his blood had migrated south to his own cock. 

                The pot of pasta gurgled and bubbled over spilling starchy water over the open flame causing it to hiss and sizzle menacingly.  They separated quickly; Sam pressing the heel of his palm down on his dick to will it down as Dean rushed to the rickety stove turned it off and tried to salvage their meal.  For a moment Sam wished that they’d just let the damn thing burn. 

-W-

                Three weeks, four states, and very little time alone together later, this _thing_ they had been cultivating together had pretty much stagnated.  They still looked at each other with that same intensity.  Still found a way to pilfer hurried contact, a quick graze of finger tips on bared skin; the bump and twining of their legs underneath the dinner table, the very rare and always maddeningly brief full body press; when no one was watching.

                It was the middle of the night and Sam felt bold.  He made his way, specter quiet, to his brother’s side of the room and pushed onto the tiny cot next to him.  Dean gave a small, questioning, “Hm?” as Sam ran a hand over his naked chest; it had been too hot for either one of them to sleep in more than just a pair of boxer shorts; and circled around his nipple with blunt fingers before catching it with a sharp twist.  Dean gave a moan a bucked his hips, cock swelling rapidly.  Sam gripped him tighter and buried his face in Dean’s neck; bit and licked at the pulse point tasting clean sweat and salty skin; slipped a leg between Dean’s; their bodies slotting together as if carved out for one another; and began to ride his brother’s firmly muscled thigh, tensed enough for Dean to do so as well. 

                “ _Fuck.”_ Dean panted out as he ran a hand up the back of Sam’s thigh, underneath his boxers, to palm and cup at his ass.  Sam felt his brother’s cock twitch followed by the damp sensation of Dean’s precome soaking through the fabric and painting wispy trails over Sam’s skin.  Felt the wet mess in his own boxers.  Dean’s grip on his ass tightened, fingers digging into his cheek, and pulled him in closer, their bodies arching, and moaning, and bucking in tandem. 

                The front door slammed shut and Dean’s eyes widened.  He bolted off of the bed, pulled on a pair of discarded Jeans and flung himself onto the other cot.  Sam pitched himself back with a frustrated groan, tangled his hands in the rumpled white sheet before slinging it over himself. 

                Loud, unsteady paces made their trek from the front door to theirs.  A sliver of light appeared as the hinges creaked and a large, dark shadow leaned against the door jamb.  Sam tried to steady his breaths, willed his, now mostly flaccid, dick down even further. 

                “Why aren’t y’asleep?”  Dad slurred.  He was drunk.

                “Maybe you woke me up.”  Sam scorned, the venom in his voice surprising even him. 

                “Watch yourself.”  John’s eyes narrowed.  “Show some respect.”

                “Or what, Dad?” Sam sat up challengingly.

                Dean was there before John could get another word in edgewise.  “Come on, Dad.”  Dean cooed, herded him out of the entrance to their room and into the living room. 

                Sam stood, watched from the doorway as Dean dumped their father onto the couch, slunk down to one knee and unlaced his boots. 

                “He hates me.” Dad garbled.

                And yeah, sometimes Sam _did._   He hated Dad’s single-mindedness, his focus on that supernatural vendetta that threatened to break every single one of them into pieces like so much shattered glass, grind them down until there was nothing left to put back together again.   He hated the fact that dad destroyed _any_ chance at normalcy for him and Dean.  But mostly, he hated what dad did to _Dean_ , thrust so much responsibility on him at such a young age; broke him down and built him up into this perfect little soldier, a one man platoon; Made him a world weary old man at twenty.  Yeah, Sam hated dad. 

                “Yer a good kid, Dean.”  It was the closest thing to a compliment either one had ever gotten from their father and it caused a pang of something in his chest. 

                “Yeah.” Dean snorted  as he pulled out the pistol tucked in Dad’s waistband, left him the hunting knife because John wouldn’t appreciate being left unarmed even for a couple of hours.  “I’m a saint.”

                “I don’t know what’d ever do withou- you.”  John continued. “If I didn’t have y’to count on-“  John’s heavy hand landed on the side of Dean’s head in a sort of half-pat and Dean swallowed, turned his face and connected his gaze with Sam’s. 

                “Go t’sleep now, Dad.”  Dean stood.  “Early day tomorrow.”  He made his way into the room, closed the door with a barely audible _click_ and just stood there not really moving.  Sam was sitting on his cot waiting for-  _anything_ really, when Dean finally looked up from the spot he was boring holes into with his stare. 

                “Jesus Christ, Sammy,”  His voice was hollow and noticeably shaky. “What the fuck are we doin’?”

                _What we want._   Sam wanted to say.  _What feels **right**.  What we **need** , more than air._  But in the end settled for “What we can”.

                “We’ve gotta stop.”  Dean rubbed at the back of his neck shifting his weight from one foot to the next. 

                “Dean-“ Sam tried to interject, reason with his big brother.

                “No Sam, this _thing_ we got going-  It ain’t right.”  Dean cut him off, face scrunched with contrition.  “It’s fifteen different kinds of fucked up, and you know it.”

                _But it can’t be wrong._   Sam’s words died in his throat before he could begin to get them out.  “What do you want me to say, Dean?”  He asked instead. 

                “Nothin’, Sam.  Don’t say anything.”  Dean strode across the room and settled on his cot, still in his jeans.  “You already promised to stop once, now it’s my turn.”

                Sam shifted in his seat.  The enormity of their situation threatened to swallow him whole.  He stood up, crossed the room and slid underneath the covers next to Dean.  “ _Sam”_   Dean began warningly. 

                “Just let me have this, Dean.”  Sam’s throat felt tight and big fat tears threatened to spill from his eyes at any moment.  “Just tonight. I promise I won’t do anything.”  His brother pulled back, let him settle in the bed, next to him.  And the funny thing was, that despite him being crowded in a tiny bed inches away from his older brother, in a room with no windows, in the first weeks of August, Sam had never felt colder in his entire life. 


	6. Consume

Sam’s days were spent wallowing in a mixture of rage, apathy, and despair.  Dad and he argued more often than not, over the most mundane of things, which would always culminate with Dean trying to intervene and one of them (usually Sam) storming out and not returning for hours or even days (John).  He was a hair trigger and everything seemed to set him off, especially Dean. 

                Dean, on the other hand, seemed particularly forbearing, always making excuses for Sam and trying to lighten the mood, trying his hardest to take care of everyone or make Sam crack a smile.  It really aggravated Sam beyond reason.  He constantly fluctuated between the warring desires of either wanting to be as close as physically possible to his older brother or punching him in the face for making him feel _things_.  He couldn’t go back to the way they were before, couldn’t even _begin_ to try, despite Dean’s constant efforts.  Not after almost having Dean the way he’d never known he wanted, the way he’d never _stop_ wanting now.  It just hurt too much.

                Sam was sitting underneath a dried-out old husk of a tree, that couldn’t even provide shade correctly, in the flat plains of Arizona.  School had started a few days back and Sam had taken to doing homework as an excuse to spend all day out, his only company the dry, dead grass or occasional scurrying rabbit.  The dry desert heat beat over him, like standing too close to a fire, as he flipped the page of his worn AP English textbook. 

                “Hey” Dean plopped down next to him, sending clouds of pale brown dirt and grit into the air and all over Sam.  “Let’s go somewhere.”

                “Busy” Sam deadpanned as he picked up his book and dusted off the cream colored pages. 

                “Aw c’mon, Sammy, I know you’ve been itching to get out.”  He bumped shoulders with Sam.

                “It’s _Sam,_ Dean. _Fuck._ ” He jerked back. “How fuckin’ hard is that to remember?  Besides, who says I even want you _around?”_ A brief flash of pain flickered on Dean’s face before he steeled it back.  And Sam was glad.  He wanted to hurt Dean.  Wanted Dean feeling that same desolation _he’d_ been feeling since he woken up alone on the cot a few weeks back. 

                “Quit bein’ a tool, Sam.” Dean spoke evenly.  Anger bubbled in Sam’s chest.

                “Fuck you.”  It was barely above a whisper as he stood up and walked away, not bothering to pick up any of his school supplies. 

-W-

                Sam scowled through the first half of the school day, not really wanting to be there but not wanting to be anywhere else.  He only really went because the classrooms where air conditioned and Sam was pretty sure that was the only thing keeping his internal temperature from rising to kelvin. 

                For lunch, he bought a grape Smucker’s uncrustable, sat on one of the empty benches in the quad.  Someone bumped into him, a meaty kid in a green letterman jacket, sent his half eaten sandwich sprawling onto the ground.  “Bitch.” The stranger guffawed as he made his way to a group of similarly dressed morons, who kept sending goading leers in his direction.  Sam balled his hands into fists, tried to count to ten, made it to three before giving the kid a murderous glare in return.  “You got a problem, son?”  The guy called out, stood in front of him. 

                Sam stood up, he was an inch or two taller, but the guy had a good 30 pounds on him.  “Oh Dude, you don’t wanna fuck with me today.”  His voice, ice cold, made the kid jerk, flick a glance back toward his cronies who were watching with thinly hid amusement.  The sun overhead was oppressively bright, cast ripples and waves of heat against the pale concrete, and Sam just wanted to leave. 

                “Or what?”  The guy jabbed Sam’s chest with a stumpy finger, emboldened by stupidity and the need to impress.  “You gonna sic your boyfriend on me?  The one with the faggy car.”

                “Get the _fuck_. _Away_ from me.”  The kid pushed Sam, and Sam saw red.  Sam was a crate of dynamite and the kid had just lit the fuse.  In one quick movement he took the guy’s wrist pulled him in and punched him in the throat with the heel of his palm.  The guy doubled over wheezing and gasping for breath.  Sam lifted his knee, took a hold of the back of the guy’s head and pulled it down swiftly.  His face collided with jarring _crunch_ sending blood spraying everywhere.  In a flash everything was over, two people were holding him back while a teacher was busy helping check on the kid -wheezing and crying, face covered in blood- on the floor. 

                He sat quietly on the stiff metal chair in the principal’s office, eyes unfocused and ears stuffed up. 

“Now several students assure me that it was Mr. Cunningham who initiated the altercation.  And that’s the only reason I’m opting for a week’s suspension instead of an expulsion.”

                “I completely understand, Sir.”  Dean spoke with authority, sending side glances in Sam’s direction every so often. 

                “I would really like to speak to your father about this.  It’s a miracle no charges are being pressed.  You don’t want a criminal record.”  Sam snorted at that.

                Dean’s eyes darkened.  “Go wait in the car.” He commanded and Sam just shrugged. 

 

                “What the _hell_ was that, Sam?”  Dean spoke as he turned off the car outside the rundown motel they were staying at, the engine ticking as it cooled down. 

                “What? Like you never got in a fight when you were my age? Like you, _still_ don’t get in at least two fights every state?”

                “I never sent anyone to the emergency room, Sam.”

                “It was a broken nose.  The guy’s a pussy.  Hardly counts as an emergency.”  Sam rolled his eyes.

                “You’re so damn lucky, Dad’s gone.  What would you do if he-”

                “you gonna tell’im?”  Sam scoffed.  “Gonna be the good kid and do everything he does and doesn’t tell you?”

                “Is _that_ what this is all about?”

                Sam opened the door and stepped out. “this isn’t about anything Dean.”

-W-

                As punishments went, a week’s suspension wasn’t too shabby.  Two days in and Sam had busied himself at the library or the park.  He and Dean had avoided each other, only really acknowledging one another when Sam got home at around ten before Dean left to _wherever_ at around eleven.  It was a Friday night and the local hang out spot, a pizza place with a pretty gnarly arcade, was fit to burst with the local high school’s populace.  Sam occupied himself with a wobbly pinball machine, nowhere near the high score, when someone spoke.

                “Hey you’re Winchester right?”

                He turned to see a tall blonde boy, with light blue eyes, in a green letterman jacket.  “Your friend had it comin’ I’ve got no problem with you.”  Sam tensed, readying himself for a fight.

                “He’s not my friend.” The guy smiled. “And yeah, he did.”  He leaned into the pinball machine and extended a hand. “I’m Brian, by the way.  Why don’t you let me buy you a slice?”

                Brian, turned out, was a Senior; played varsity basketball, _Shooting guard_ ; was astoundingly  smart, _early admission to ASU_ ; and wanted to go to school to become a social worker, _I just really want to help people, you know?_   He was also remarkably friendly and actually looked at Sam when he spoke, listened intently and provided actual feedback or rebuttal instead of lame jokes or mocking condescension.

                Sometime after midnight, after the pizza place had already closed, and they had moved on from discussing the second _Harry Potter_ book and how excited they were for the third one, and Sam figured Dean would probably have been long gone by that time, he decided it was about time to get back to the room. 

                “I should probably get going.”  He said. 

                Brian lifted himself quickly from the spot they were sitting at, on the floor leaning against the exposed brick wall of the closed Pizzeria, dusted himself off and extended a hand to help Sam up.  “I’ll walk you.”

                “I can take care of myself.”  Sam rolled his eyes, but otherwise accepted Brian’s helping hand. “I’m not a girl you know.” 

                “Oh trust me.”  Brian pulled him up with a strong, swift movement until they were only a few inches apart.  “I’m very well aware of that.”  His breath smelled like pizza and root beer and Sam let go of his hand quickly, tried to play off that odd little flutter he felt at the words. 

                “Okay.”

                Their walk back to his fleabag motel took decidedly longer than was actually necessary, both of them walking at a rheumatic turtle’s pace flipping through topics that didn’t fare any better. 

                “So your Dad’s just gone indefinitely?”

                “yeah, his work is- Complicated.  He’s gone for weeks at a time.  We move a lot.”  Sam was glad when Brian didn’t press.

                “Cool car” Brian whistled as they walked by the Impala.  Stared at it briefly and then continued walking. 

                “it’s my brother’s.”  Sam supplied as they made their way underneath the brown wooden awning above the door to Sam’s room. 

                “And where is he at?”  He stepped closer to Sam, underneath the porch lamp, the cheap fluorescent bulbs dousing them in pale synthetic light.

                “Out probably.”  Brian crowded into Sam’s space, placed an arm on the door.  He was about Sam’s height, maybe even a little shorter.

                “So that mean’s it’d be okay if I-“  He was cut off by the door swinging open, causing him to lurch and stumble.  Dean was standing in the doorway holding a whetstone in one hand and a _huge_ hunting knife in the other, looking absolutely homicidal. 

                Dean let out a “Hm” not so much a greeting, but an acknowledgment. 

                “H-Hi”  Brian stuttered pathetically as Dean sharpened the knife, each scrape against the whetstone like nails on a chalkboard.  “So I- ah- I’ll see you later Sam.”  He knew it wasn’t likely. 

                “I’ll see ya at school, Brian.”  He decided to throw the guy a bone and squeezed past Dean –and his giant knife- into the room. 

                Sam toed off his shoes, in search of some relief from the sweltering desert heat, and turned to his brother.  Dean closed the door and flung his props onto the card table, before turning to Sam with livid eyes.

                “the fuck was that?”  Sam furrowed his brow. 

                “ _No,_ What the fuck was _that,_ Sam?”  Dean was pissed.  “Do you have any idea what time it is?”  Fuming.  “And who the fuck even was that?”

                “What does it even matter what time it is?”  Sam crossed his arms and took two steps forward.  “And _not_ that it’s any of your business, but that was Brian, a friend from school.”

                “None of my-  _You’re_ my business _,_ Sam. _Everything about you_ is my business _._ ”  His brother’s voice rose higher.  “And that mmmbop motherfucker’s not your _friend_.  He was gonna-  gonna-“  Dean couldn’t get the words out.

                “He was gonna _kiss me_ , Dean.”  Sam affirmed. “Yeah, I know.  And I was gonna _let him_.” 

                “You _what?”_   Dean’s brow creased and his nostrils flared as he reached out and took ahold of Sam’s bicep in a bruising grip.

                He shook himself out of the hold and stormed out of the room, not bothering to formulate anything even resembling a plan.  The dirty concrete felt ice cold against his bare feet as he walked in the direction of the vending machines. “Where do you think you’re going?”  Dean pulled on his shoulder, slammed his back against the wall, caged him in with one arm, the other bunching at the fabric of Sam’s T-shirt.  Dean’s hackles were raised, his eyes were black with rage, and his muscles strained with the task of holding back the ire.  “ _I swear t’God_.”  He snarled.  “Sometimes you just make me wanna-“

                “What Dean?  You gonna hit me?”  Sam challenged. “Just fucking try it, Dean.  Just fucking try to hit me.”  Dean growled ferally.  He pulled back, and before Sam knew what or how, he gripped at the base of Sam’s skull and crushed their mouths together.  Sam gasped as their teeth clanked against each other and Dean’s tongue delved into his mouth, licking at the slick, warm inside and scraping over teeth and gums, coaxing his own tongue to do the same.  Dean pinned him harder into the wall, stepped in between his legs so they rested on his hips, dragging their groins together slow and hard, sent sparks racing up and down his spine.  Sam’s arms rose to the back of his older brother’s neck, pulled him in to deepen the kiss and bruise their lips against each other. 

                Dean’s mouth tasted like candy and beer and something smoky that was all Dean.  Sam chased the taste, sucked at Dean’s tongue with wild abandon.  Dean let out a ferocious moan, ran his hands down Sam’s back and over his ass, squeezed it and _lifted him up_ , angled his own head up to not break the kiss.  It hit Sam then, that for all their teasing, and touching, and messing around they’d never actually _kissed_ before.  And that somehow this felt incontestable and absolute, a point of no return that they’d crossed in the heat of the moment. 

                Dean carried him through the wide open doorway, kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot and flung Sam onto the nearest bed.  Sam tore off his T-shirt as his brother fumbled with Sam’s pants, pulled them off along with his underwear in one fell swoop.  He then reached for the back of Dean’s shirt and ripped it off of him as Dean unbuckled his own belt, opened his jeans and pushed them down his thighs and over his knees. 

                His older brother reached out and frantically pulled open the nightstand, riffled through its contents of dirty pictures and magazines until he triumphantly found what he was looking for.  His knuckles bumped accidentally against the drawer knocking it down and spilling all its contents into the small space between the beds as he pulled out the half empty bottle of lube.  At any other time Sam would’ve found his brother’s agitated dealings amusing –funny even- but right now his cock was hard and aching, and he couldn’t really find the humor in the situation. 

                “Gah. Dean. Get the _fuck on_ with it.”  He growled as Dean opened the bottle with his teeth, tore the little black cap off and spit it out.  He coated his hand in slick, large round drops running down his fingertips, and tossed the bottle aside, its contents oozing out and seeping into the fabric of the blue bedspread.  He rubbed at the skin of Sam’s entrance, shoved two fingers in without much preamble.  Sam keened at the unexpected stretch and burn, tried to relax his muscles.  His eyes screwed shut as he felt his brother scissoring in and out of him, fingers stretching him out and ghosting at his prostate on every third stroke. 

                “Fuck Sammy, you’re so hot.” Dean muttered.  “So fuckin’ tight.  Clenching around my fingers and sucking me in.  You fucking love this don’t you?”  Sam only bucked his hips in reply, pushed down and fucked himself on his brother’s hand.  Dean pulled out his fingers and Sam whined at the sudden emptiness.  Dean slicked his cock with the lube that remained on his hand and positioned himself in between Sam’s spread legs.  He teased at Sam’s snug hole with the head of his dick, it felt blunt and too big, pressed and rubbed it around the furled skin before slowly sinking in, the tight virgin ring of muscle finally giving in at the push.  For a moment Sam forgot how to breathe.  It burned, and he felt so damn full, stretched tight and about to split in two.  “You okay?”  Dean stopped, fond voice heady and deep, a strange mixture of lust and concern.  Sam took in a few deep breaths through his nose and nodded in assent, felt his eyes water and one large tear roll down his face.

 Dean wiped the tear away with his thumb, bent down and kissed him slow and sweet and possessive.  Peppered kisses on his temple, jaw, and neck in a familiar need to sooth any discomfort away.  He Stayed still until Sam pushed him away and commanded “ _Move”_.

Dean started to move lazily, shallow little thrusts and moves that burned and ached but gradually began to feel good, _really_ good.  He clutched at Sam’s hips, dug his fingers hard enough into the skin that Sam could picture the row of darkening bruises that would appear tomorrow, and angled them until he hit that one spot that had Sam arching his back like a cat in heat.  Dean chuckled deep in his chest as he shoved into him with more fervor.  He kept Sam at that angle, thrust into him hitting that spot over and over, causing Sam to forget about the burn with the rush of pleasure. 

Dean bit at his neck and shoulders, mouthed at his jaw and whispered hot and filthy in his ear.  “Christ Sammy, you’re so fucking sexy.  Taking my dick like a fucking pro.  Gonna do this every day.  Gonna lie down and watch you ride me.”  Sam’s own cock was flush and hard trapped between their stomachs, leaking thick spurts of precome that smeared against their skin.

Sam clenched around Dean, causing him to grunt intensely.  He took ahold of Sam’s hand and licked a broad wet stripe against his palm, pulled it in between them.  “Jerk yourself off for me, baby.”  He pleaded.  “Not gonna last much longer, need to get yourself off.”  Sam managed a few loose strokes in tandem with Dean’s prods to his sweet spot before he was gone, dick twitching and spurting hot and thick between their bodies, ass clamping down over Dean’s cock.  Dean’s movements became rougher and more unsteady and his hips shoved wildly as he came with a final savage growl, pumping into Sam and filling him up.

They were panting heavily when they separated.  Chests heaving and temporarily high.  Dean reached down and picked up one of the discarded items, which conveniently happened to be _Sam’s_ T-shirt, and began to first wipe Sam off and then himself.  He then reached down towards the tangle at his feet.  Sam rolled his eyes.

“Please tell me you did _not_ just fuck me with your pants around your ankles.” He deadpanned.

“I was in the moment, Sam.” Dean teased. 

Sam scoffed. “My ass.”

To which Dean replied, “yeah that too.”  And Sam blushed uncontrollably. 

“Now what?”

“I could go for some pancakes.”

“No.” Sam rolled on to his side and punched his big brother in the arm.  “I mean are you gonna run away again?”

Dean twined his fingers through the hair at the back of Sam’s head and pulled him in for a hungry kiss.  They kissed deep, lazy, and slow, tongues tasting and exploring.  Dean bit and sucked on Sam’s lower lip until it felt hot and swollen; let it go with a loud, moist slurp.  “I’m done running.  I promise.”  Sam’s eyelids began to droop, he felt exhausted.  “Go to sleep, Sam.  I’ll still be here when you wake up.”


End file.
